


Bloodbath (The Bar Brawl Remix)

by sistabro



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: kamikazeremix, Gen, Gore, Hell, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Remix, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 02:52:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sistabro/pseuds/sistabro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're the one wielding the knife now, but deep down you know you aren't worthy of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloodbath (The Bar Brawl Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shiver](https://archiveofourown.org/works/118236) by [PhoenixDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/pseuds/PhoenixDragon). 



> Thanks to cherie_morte for the last minute beta and to moragmacpherson for the help with the concept.

Souls have a scent to them, the stench of their particular sins. You've become a connoisseur, can pick out a rapist, a murderer, a thief just by walking in the room. It's a little game you play with yourself while preparing your instruments, trying to pick out their transgressions from smell alone before the blood and bile stink of your work overpowers the subtleties. 

The one currently stretched out on your rack makes the whole room smell like _(Harvelle's)_ a bar: the hoppy piss of cheap beer, paint thinner spirits, bitter regrets and the bruised smell of violence. No mystery here, just _(Dad at the table with the bottle and his grief)_ a violent drunk, not worth the game at all, and you skip right over the warm up to the main event. No fondling the knives and flails to let him stew in his own mounting terror a bit, just a blind, angry grab for one of the knife hilts and the quick plunge into the belly. 

The blade goes in like butter, right through the skin and fat into the stew of intestines. Too deep and sloppy, missed all the vital most painful bits. A rookie mistake Alastair will take out of your hide later. 

You pull the knife out almost before the man has a chance to start in on the screaming, blood and bile and shit spraying into the air. Wet drops land on your face and you lick your lips, let the _(nauseating and horrifying)_ rich metallic taste of it settle on your tongue, fill up your senses

Only it doesn't quite work. You can still taste the bitterness of _(clear nights under the stars on the hood of the car, passing the bottle over to Sam)_ cheap beer at the back of your throat, still smell the acrid burn of _(birthdays)_ Jack Daniels far up in your sinuses. 

That little bit must not have been enough, so you dig your hand into the hole you made and scoop out a bloody handful, lap it up hungrily from your palm. But you can still taste it, the booze, only now it's twisted up in blood like _(hustling)_ a bar fight. 

You hear _(Sam puking in the parking lot)_ a quiet gagging noise and you look up from your red hand at the poor sop on the table. He's watching you, chin on his chest, expression twisted in disgust. Not fear. Not pain. Alastair is going to kill you. Maybe worse because you are supposed to be better than this by now. Colder and crueler: a _(killer)_ craftsman. But you've completely botched this session. Maybe you could have recovered from your impulsive first stab, but that stupid stunt, licking the blood off your fingers, there's no finessing your way back from that. 

Except you don't want to be an artist right now anyways. You're in the mood for butchery, riled up and rattled and angry. You want to tear this man apart because his smell, his fucking smell, it's shaking loose things you thought had been carved out when you were the one on the rack for all those years.

Your fist slams into _(Sam's)_ his cheek before you even realize you've moved. But there's this singing rightness to it, the burn in your knuckles, the burn in your throat. And you just keep punching, the ache in your hands is so satisfying but not enough, not what will banish these memories of _(home)_ upstairs. The man under your hands doesn't matter. You can't bring yourself to care about his pain, only about which bones of his will do you the most damage when you hit them. You're a failure, a sham, unworthy of Alastair's tutelage: you deserve to hurt, deserve to bleed.

You should be beyond this, stronger than this. You shouldn't still be feeling these things. You're _(Sam's, Dad's)_ Alastair's now. You're supposed to have thrown out your old life like the trash it was, but it just keeps bubbling up over and over again. The reek of an alcoholic today, some girl with eyes the same shade as Sam's tomorrow, some man with stubble that feels exactly like Dad's against your skin two years past. Every time you pick up the knife, it's a lie. You hate it, hate your weakness. Loathe that you can't seem to move beyond it, that you keep disappointing your _(father)_ Master.

Someone suddenly grabs your shoulders and you jerk away, so intent on breaking your hands that you fail to recognize Alastair's touch for a moment. But he's insistent, stronger than you as he pulls you tight against his chest, pins your flailing limbs until you realize whose embrace you are in and go pliant. He walks around you until you are face to face, and you close your eyes helplessly when he picks up one of your shattered hands and lays a kiss across your knuckles.

You hear the hiss of reality altering and when Alastair turns you around, the rack is empty and clean. Waiting for you. You walk over and lay yourself down upon the splintered wood with relief. Gratitude too, because he doesn't tie you down, doesn't speak or demand answers, just knows what you need and is willing to give it to you. Blood and pain to hollow you out again, make you _(broken)_ better and stronger like only Alastair can. 

You hold onto the table, keep yourself still like a good boy as the razor cuts into you, draws a red circle around your nipple. White hot agony as he plucks it from your chest, first one and then the other. You gasp and you moan, but the bite of whiskey still lingers on your tongue and the _(pleasure)_ pain isn't centering you like it should. You lick your lips, hoping the taste of your own blood and sweat will finally clear your palate. No such luck, but Alastair notices, taps his nose with a little understanding noise and comes to stand above your head.

With an efficient motion, he slices his own wrist with the already bloody razor and holds it to your mouth. You drink hungrily, suckle like an infant on a teat, and Alastair's blood lights you up, puts a fire in your belly and veins. You feel yourself growing hard, pleasure and relief as the whiskey is finally banished from your mouth along with all those _(treasured)_ troublesome memories. And when Alastair takes up the knife again, you welcome it, let the pain put things right inside you, knowing that someday it won't be a lie when you pick up that knife yourself.


End file.
